In the Blink of an Eye
by chicadoodle
Summary: Jack Sparrow liked pretty things. Always had; like to collect them, wear them. But there was one thing in his possession he would not part with; one item he hid, never let others ogle it. No, this item was one he was not proud of. It was his wand.
1. Chapter 1

Captain Jack Sparrow was many things. A theif. A scoundrel. A liar. A friend. A lover. A murderer. The list could go on and on, but he really didn't have the patience to sit around and make a list all of his shortcomings. Not that all of them were shortcomings -- some of them were much worse. And sometimes much better. But very rarely the second.

Jack Sparrow was many things. But nobody would ever dare claim he was good. He was not sweet. He was not nice ... most of the time. He didn't like kittens. He had been known to kick a puppy from time to time. He was a sonofabitch pirate with an amazing streak of luck that had followed him throughout his entire life.

Jack Sparrow liked pretty things -- he always had. He liked to collect things, liked to wear them, like to kill people to get to them. But there was one item in his possession that he would not part with, even for a second. It didn't stay on his ship, didn't come in to contact with the crew members. Even Will Turner, as close as they were, didn't know of it's existance. It was the one item that Jack Sparrow would guard with his very life.

It was his wand.

Just a thin little piece of wood, it looked harmless. Looked like something you could pick up out of any forest. But if you knew what it was, if you recognized it for the power it held, you would understand why it was so special.

He didn't like to use it -- didn't like to bring it out, to let others see it. He protected it, kept it on him at all times, but he also hated it. Hated it for what it reminded him of, for what it would never let him forget. That other life, lost so long ago... Back, before the ships and the gold and jewels, back before the long hair and the accent and the rum. Ah, the rum... This little piece of wood was the one thing that stopped him from being completely and utterly happy. And he hated it. But at times, it was the only protection he had.

Protection ... that was a laugh. It hadn't protected his wife, had it? Hadn't protected their son, crying in his cradle, from the maniac who had attacked them, for no reason other than he could. Magic had kept him alive ... but had killed both of them.

He didn't know how he'd ended up where he had, lying on a beach in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but the clothes on his back and his wife's dying scream still ringing in his ears.

He'd still had his wand, what good it did him. The Knight Bus couldn't reach him here, and since he had no idea where he was he couldn't very well apparate safely.

After two days, though, he didn't have much of a choice. Help wasn't coming.

He'd ended up at his house, limbs heavy and eyes sleepy as he stared at the spot where his house _should_ have been. It was the right town, and there, the little well his wife had enjoyed taking their infant son to play ...

There were some people there now, talking as they drew water from a well he was certain had been dry for over twenty years or more. But there they were, and that bucket they were bringing up was anything but empty.

He'd wandered off, stumbling back toward the water where he'd found a boat quickly enough, their words still ringing in his ears. A quick spell told him the exact date, and his hands shook as he pushed off to sea, barely even noticing the man shouting after him to get off his boat.

That had been years ago, of course. He rarely thought of it now, pushed those memories to the back of his mind. But sometimes something would remind him ... when he saw a small, dark-haired boy playing with his mother. When he saw a robe, even if it was on a priest. He had worn robes like that, once. Different than theirs, of course, more colorful and, he was sure, far more comfortable.

Ah, what did it matter? He would never again dress in such a way. He would never again become what he had once been. And so the wand stayed hidden away, reserved only for the most dire of circumstances.

He counted this as one such occasion.

But did he dare? He understood the thematics, understood the spell as well as he could. It was a tricky one, one he had learned from an old childhood rival. They had been at each other's throats constantly, and it had been mere chance that he had found the boy's notebook, where he had kept his most precious of creations, his most valued of notes. It was there that he had found this spell. He wasn't sure where the other boy had found it, but he _was_ sure that it was not one of the boy's creations. No mere child could have created so complex of a spell, of that he was certain.

It would apparate them from this place -- Him, the lovely Elizabeth Turner, and those of his crew who caught his attention. Of Will Turner he had no worries -- the boy was, essentially, immortal, his heart now trapped within the chest that Elizabeth had hid only demon's knew where. He would survive this, if one could call it that. He wasn't really alive, but neither was he dead, and that had to count for something.

And with a few muttered words, Captain Jack Sparrow completed the spell, his wand hidden from view within the folds of his jacket. He thought it was hidden -- thought that none had seen him remove it, and wouldn't have understood what it meant even if they did.

He had underestimated his current opponent. And overestimated the his own genius. Again.

The man wasn't confused at all -- a little surprise, maybe, but not confused. He took a step forward, as if to try and stop the spell from taking place. It was completed before he got too far, of course, but Jack saw the recognition in his face, and the sudden fear. Strange, that he hadn't seemed afraid before.

Of course, Jack had never cast this spell before in his life. That worried him a little, but not overly so. They would survive, or they wouldn't. Simple enough. Of course, if they got caught somewhere in the middle, that would make things far more interesting -- and perhaps that was something to worry about. He hadn't thought of that before ...

But the spell was cast, and in a flash of brilliant white light that left him nearly blinded, he felt an unseen _force_ grab at him and _pull_. It was one of the oddest sensations he had ever experienced -- and he'd been through some doozies. It was different from apparation -- he was used to the tug at his navel that came with that particular spell, even after all these years. But this was a shove, and a pull, even as he was pushed away. For a second, he almost thought he wasn't going to make it.

What a way to go out.

But in barely seconds -- much longer than apparation, truth be told -- he found himself in a crumpled heap on the ground, leg still smarting from where he'd been dropped. And he _had_ been dropped -- instead of appearing in the same position, he had appeared several feet above the ground. In a Dungeon.

Oh, bloody lovely.

Clambering to his feet, Jack Sparrow hissed in pain, bending down to rub at his injured leg. It wasn't that bad -- a bruise, maybe a sprain. But it hurt like _hell_. Not that he hadn't endured worse, but _still_.

Letting loose a heavy breath, he stared around himself with a frown, wondering idly why this particular dungeon filled him with such a sense of forboding. He had certainly been in ones much more ... decorated than that, after all. In retrospect, this one was almost ... clean. Bottles and cauldrons filled a room, a desk pushed against one wall and several chairs upended, as if they had simply been thrown in here. Who would use a dungeon cell to hold supplies, though?

Well, besides Snivellus. But that snarky git didn't count -- he was hundreds of years from now, probably standing in front of a potion's cauldron getting his hair even _more_ greasy.

If that was even possible.

Elizabeth Turner slowly rolled over on to her side, groaning in a quite _un_ladylike manner. She was on a crumpled heap on the floor, directly to the left of her husband who was standing there dazedly -- the only one to stay standing. He had a dazed look on his face, blinking slowly as he stared around the room.

Wait, how was he here? Wasn't he ... Didn't he ... What the bloody hell?

Will, for his part, was just as confused as his friend, staring around the room with an alarmed expression. His wife had yet to clamber to her feet, was still gasping for breath. He, personally, could hold his breath indefinately -- the living dead and all that.

"Jack, what -- what did you just _do_?" He asked, voice unconsciously roughened as he helped his wife to her feet. She leant heavily against him, face hidden in the groove where neck met shoulder and her right arm wrapped around his waist.

Jack merely gave him a _look_, however, leaving just what that look was supposed to _mean_ up to his own imagination to come up with.

He wasn't exactly the imaginative sort.

Heaving an exasperated sigh, Will shook his head before turning to inspect the room around them. It wasn't as bad as ost other dungeons he had seen in his time; pristine compared even to those of Port Royal -- and others, of other ports of call? There _was_ no comparison; barely livable those, if at all.

Evenn the walls here were clean, though the floor could use a good sweeping. It was obvious they were beneath the ground, however; the feel, the smell. The lack of windows. There was just a certain _feeling_ to being beneath the ground. Confining, entrapping. He had never enjoyed the feeling before, liked it even less now.  
"Huh. Tha's interestin'." Will jerked around to watch as Jack moved toward the door, arms still tightly wrapped around his wife. She seemed to be having a particularly brutal reaction to whatever it was Jack had done, clutching tightly at his neck as she shook slightly.

Jack stood just before the door, head tilted to the side before he reached for the handle with a shrug. Frowning when it proved to be locked, he gave a heavy sigh before Will could make a comment, drawing the strange stick Will hadn't noticed earlier and muttering something under his breath. When he tried the handle this time, it gave easily, and Will was left to stare in confusion, before hastening after the other man as he proved unwilling to wait for Elizabeth to pull herself together.

"Not good ... not good." Jack was muttering under his breath -- and while Will couldn't help but agree that their present location wasn't the best he could have wished for, it was certainly better than the battle they had just left. "Jack? Do you know where we are?" _That_ was the most worriesome possibility, that Jack had done something particularly ... _pirate-y_ on some previous date. Made somebody angry, perhaps.

"No. Nope. Not happenin'. Not possible. Mhmm. Can't be right. We could not have just -- how could we-?" Jack was still muttering under his breath, though the words reaching his ears were starting to worry Will more and more with each passing second.

Jack stepped out into the hallway, back to the door as he glared at the painting of an elderly woman, a shocked look etched on to her face. "What in the _world_ are you wearing, young man?"

Will jumped at the sound of the voice, staring at the painting in shock as Jack's expression just grew darker."Whose tha' current Headmas'er?" He asked shortly, crossing his arms over his chest and shifting most of his weight to his right foot.

The painting frowned, glancing to her left, and Will realised with a start that the painting _next_ to her was staring back with the same expression. "Albus ... Dumbledore?"

"Jack ..." Will paused, wondering just how to phrase this. "One of the ... people ... just ran off. Should we worry about--" Before he could finish his question, Jack was bolting off in the same direction the painting ... person ... had moved, a look of st ark fear written across his face. "Jack!"

Elizabeth seemed to have finally come to her senses, as she bolted after the man, and Will was left to hastecn to catch up with them.


	2. Chapter 2

_The past is so familiar,_

_But that's why you couldn't stay._

_Too may ghosts, too many haunted dreams._

Dumbeldore. Of course it was Dumbledore. He had to continue convincing himself that it didn't mean anything – that Dumbledore had been Headmaster a long time before he himself had become a student. It could be any year – any time. Hell, Dumbledore could already be alive in their time – the man was old, that was for sure. And wizards _did_ live an awfully long time ...

"Jack, where are we?" Ah, Lizzie. The little backstabber that she was, he had to admit she _would_ be useful in a situation like this. Properly sweet enough to throw Dumbledore off his guard – because Lord knew the man liked his manipulations enough.

"Jack?" Oh, right. She expected a response, didn't she?

"A school." Jack said shortly, throwing her a dark look as he started up the stairs. Clean swept, of course, pristine. Thank goodness these ones didn't have a trick step, as he had neither the time nor the patience to explain such things to the two muggles following after him.

"What do you-" Elizabeth was cut off as Jack suddenly stopped, his body going ridged as he stared directly in front of him at the man who had appeared around the corner.

White, snowy beard tucked in to his belt, Albus Dumbledore was actually dressed even more flamboyantly than usual; bright blue robes with small stars dancing across their surface, the hat upon his head drooped slightly as usual, though Jack had the niggling suspicion it had been designed to do so; it certainly looked new enough.

The wand currently leveled at his chest, however, left Jack with no illusions as to the aged Professor's current views toward him. "Stop."

Jack had the sudden insane urge to laugh, to point out that they _had_ stopped; Will had actually crashed into Elizabeth, if he wasn't mistaken. He held his tongue for once, however, too dumbfounded to say much of anything.

Dumbledore looked _old._ Older even than Jack remembered him. Which was, of course, disturbing enough in and of itself, that he could remember the man so clearly in his own mind.

"Your wand. Now." Jack started at that, glancing down at his hand, and the wand he still clutched tightly. Oh, right. He'd forgotten to put it away. It _could_ have been useful – against anybody else.

Noticing his hesitation, Albus Dumbledore took a step forward, wand never wavering until it stood just inches from Jack's face, and Jack had to wonder at the stupidity at that. All he had to do was --

It was over before he'd even realized what he was doing – or stopped to think that perhaps, just _perhaps_, Albus Dumbledore had more of an arsenal than just his _wand_. However, Jack's hand had shot out at the first opportunity, and he now held a wand in each hand, both of which he held pointed at Albus Dumbledore.

Right. He had a death wish. Actually, that explained a lot ...

For his part, the Professor seemed shocked into silence, mouth slightly open as he stared at the man before him.

Jack shifted in place, eying the older man warily. As he was wondering how to proceed, however, he found his head making solid contact with the wall to his left, stars dancing before hie eyes. He could vaguely hear Will angry shout, the unsheathing of a sword. And then ... silence.

Oh. Wandless magic. Right. Jack pulled his head from the wall, his body pinned against the wall by an unseen force. Breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts, he squinted to make out the older man through a narrowed gaze.

Oh, this wasn't good. This wasn't good _at all_.

Will and the lovely Lizzie lay on the floor, and Dumbledore was staring down at them now, apparently confused at the lack of fight. Ah, he had expected a wizard's resistance, had he? Those two had never been capable of magic, for all their ... other ... talents. No, they had no protection against people like Dumbledore – not without proper warning, anyway.

But what would Captain Teague think of him, spending his time analyzing every action of his enemy? _"Act, Jackie. Thinkin's all well'n good, but ye gotta __**act**__"_

Rather hard, though, when you were pinned immobile by the power of a man's thoughts alone.

"Who are you?" There was a question in the aged Headmaster's tone, and his fingers relaxed around his wand as he stepped toward Jack. The only one who had shown any magical aptitude, and even he had been taken down easily.

"An illusion. I'm not actually here. Too many sweets, my dear man." It was the first thing that came to mind, and Jack nearly burst out laughing at the look on Dumbledore's face. Well, might as well keep going with it ...

"It's the muggle candies, really. Too many preservatives." Albus Dumbledore shook his head, a small smile curling his lips and making his beard shift, eyes crinkling around the edges. "Not one of Tom's men, then."

Ah, Voldemort. Of course. Wait. That meant--

Some of his shock must have shown through on his face, for Dumbledore frowned, taking another step forward, until they were nearly toe to toe.

"You're voice sounds familiar, young man. Have we met?" Jack swallowed thickly at that, averting his gaze down and to the left. _Don't meet his eyes, don't meet his eyes_ ... He certainly remembered what had happened whenever Remus or Sirius had made that mistake ...

Huh. Hadn't thought of them in a while, had he? But no, best not to think of anything incriminating, anything that might give him away ...

"You know Remus Lupin, then? And Sirius Black, I see. They had a rather large circle of friends in their school days, unfortunately, and even larger number of enemies. What _is_ your name, young man? And what are you doing down here, for that matter?" Dumbledore's voice had become almost conversational at this point, and Jack risked a glance up at the older man. Avoiding his eyes apparently didn't work – how _did_ one counteract something like that? He'd find out eventually, he was sure – once it no longer mattered. Once it was too late.

That was the way it always worked, wasn't it?

Jack swallowed thickly, eying the man warily as he wondered just how much the man _had_ seen; how much was still safe.

"Do you have many secrets then?" There was humor in the Headmaster's voice now, and Jack silently grit his teeth as he watched the older man step forward, the tip of his wand pressed lightly against the underside of Jack's chin – dangerously close. And for all the humor in the aged headmaster's words, his eyes were steely and cold, face set with resolution.

This was not a man to be trifled with.

Which meant, of course, he had to try.

Albus Dumbledore was having a Very Bad Day.

And the Fool he had found wandering the school wasn't helping matters any.

Fighting back the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, to sigh in exasperation, Albus had the sudden insane urge to laugh. To just throw back his head and burst out laughing.

The man had audacity, that much was for sure. How much of it was true insanity, and how much just random poppycock to avoid answering his questions, however, Albus wasn't quite sure.

He had been surprised, when that hand had suddenly shot out and _grabbed_ at his wand; he hadn't been unarmed in a long time, and most wizards certainly didn't resort to actual _physical_ violence; they worked that out of their systems by the time they left Hogwarts, too used to using magic for any and every thing by that point.

A pity.

"No' that it aint kinky an' all, but I'm startin' to get a cramp here, gramps." Albus drew a steadying breath and he focused on the ruffian before him, quirking one eyebrow at the name. _Gramps_? He hadn't been called that in a long time – not since James had died.

That boy had been the most audacious he had ever met. Until now. He, at least, had had their history to fall back on. This man? He had no such safety net. Yet you would think he did, the way he was acting.

Twirling his reclaimed wand between his fingers, Albus took a step back, turning slightly but still keeping the man in the corner on his sight. While this wizard was an enigma, his two companions were even more so. Even their style of dress confused him; old clothes, clothes he hadn't seen since he was a boy. Even then, they had been out of style for some time – even among muggles, who were known for dressing in all shapes and variations.

These two were dressed a bit more on the normal side, for the era at least. Not like their wizarding companion, who looked as far from respectable as Albus had thought possible. Perhaps he had even passed that boundary.

Breeches. Actual _breeches_. How long had it been since he had seen those? And a sword. Nobody carried around swords any more, and while fire arms were, of course, quite a bit more popular, the one the woman had drawn was _old_. Not the gun itself – no, that looked rather new, now that he got a good look at it. But the style? Did they even _make_ those any more? Let alone the ammunition.

Albus Dumbledore was _flighty_, as one of his muggleborn students had once termed it. He took to fancies, kept with them for a short while before his attention would be caught by something else. He had the luxury of having such fancies, and usually it was all in good fun.

But for once, those fancies were proving helpful. He had had a _thing_ for muggle weaponry some time back, and done his best to study the different kinds of technological terrors muggles had developed to protect themselves with – and to destroy their fellow man. He hadn't gone very far back in history – only a hundred years or so. But that was long enough to know that these weapons hadn't been made in _decades_.

A long time, for a muggle.

Jack watched the aged professor move away, following his line of sight to Will and Lizzie. Oh. Right. Muggles in Hogwarts – that had to be some sort of record, didn't it? Especially considering they had appareted in.

To Hogwarts.

Right.

Was the war still on, then? Perhaps he had reappeared at the same instant he had left – wouldn't that be a hoot? But, no. Dumbledore was too old – older than Jack had ever seen him, actually. So, the future. Not too distant; the man didn't look _that_ old.

And besides, he _had_ to be reaching the end of his life, right? Everybody died eventually.

Even Albus Dumbledore.

Even James Potter.

Albus had been about to _ennervate_ one of the oddly dressed individuals when the thoughts of his lone conscious prisoner filtered through the open link they still shared, and he swung around so quickly he nearly toppled over. His eyes were wide behind moon-shaped spectacles – which many had speculated he didn't actually have any need for.

"What do you know of James Potter?" When he received no immediate answer, Albus took the few steps required to be standing toe to toe with the man; their height was similar, and it reminded him suddenly of the various arguments he would have with James, standing in this same position. He'd actually had to immobilize that man on occasion, as well.

Too many similarities; too many ghosts. And for them to appear in _this_ man, as different from James as night from day ...

But he knew James. That was, perhaps, mot surprising of all. That he would know James – and, by conjunction, Remus and Sirius and all the rest of their rag-tag group.

But what else did know? What secrets had James shared with him before his death?

Or was he just becoming paranoid in his old age?

But that still didn't explain their presence in his school; the most immediate problem. Whatever connection this one might have had to James Potter was moot; no matter his personal feelings on the matter, the safety of his school came first.

Turning swiftly away, Albus took in the sight of the other two intruders once again.


	3. Chapter 3

Will Turner woke with a groan, one hand coming up unconsciously to rub at the place where his heart had once rested. It still pained him at times; a phantom pain, surely, for nothing short of his heart – his real, physical heart – falling in to the wrong hands could kill him now.

But it hurt nonetheless.

Blinking open his eyes, he instantly knew that something was out of place. Well, more so than usual. In the few short months since he had taken to the task of ferrying the dead to their final resting place, he had come across some might strange sights – and some strangely dressed individuals. However, this man had to take the cake.

He was wearing a dress. And it was dancing. He wasn't dancing, mind you. Just the dress. On it's own.

Maybe he had hit his head harder than he thought.

Feeling himself being lifted to his feet against his will, Will eyed the man carefully, attempting to regain his balance only to find he was being held just off the ground by some unseen force.

This just kept getting better and better.

"Name." Will blinked, wondering if playing dumb would work. No, he couldn't pull it off like Jack could. Could anybody? "What is your _name_?"

Oh, right. He wanted an answer, didn't he? Damn Jack and spreading insanity among everybody he met.

"Will Turner. And you?" A quick glance told him Elizabeth was still unconscious, but the steady rise and fall of her chest calmed the worry that wanted to rise up and overwhelm Will, and he eyed the older man warily as he struggled futilely against whatever magic was holding him place.

It was nothing like the magic he had run into in the past, however, reminiscent of Tia Dalma's powers after she had been released from her ... _prison_.

And while he was _pretty_ sure the man before him wasn't a god ... you could never be too careful. He certainly hadn't expected it of the other woman, either.

"Turner." It was said as a statement, and Will frowned at the confusion in the man's voice. Had he been expecting something different, then?

Starting at the feel of warm fingers brushing along his arm, Will watched the man carefully inspect his arms, pushing the sleeves of his shirt up and moving his fingers over the unmarred flesh he found, murmuring something in what sounded like _Latin_ of all things under his breath.

Raising one dark eyebrow, Will shifted his gaze over to Jack, who seemed to be in a similar predicament as him. The other man simply shrugged his shoulders, a small smile curving his lips and hair falling in it's usual disarray around his shoulders.

There was something else there, however, that Will hadn't quite been expecting. A certain ... wariness, even fear, that Jack had yet to show when faced with undead, armies and gods, all hell-bent on destroying him.

And this man hadn't even really threatened them.

"You are un-marked." There was surprise in the man's voice, and Will's gaze snapped back to him as the man tapped a thin wooden stick against his lips, blue eyes narrowed. And for all his vaulted intelligence, there was only one thing that came to Will Turner's mind.

"Huh?"

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Now, there were several things that Jack considered doing at this point. For one, drawing the Old Fool's attention back to him, away from the seriously confused Will Turner. Two, berating that same young man for such an inadequate response.

However, he opted for the final option – and laughed his arse off.

Albus Dumbledore jerked around in surprise, while Will merely shook his head with a sigh. "Ignore him. He does this a lot."

Jack frowned, put out enough that he stopped his nearly maniacle laughter to stare thoughtfully at his companion. "And yet you still come 'round, William. Why is that?"

"If I remember correctly, _you_ were the one to steal on to _my_ ship --"

"Ship?"

Jack jerked slightly, having momentarily forgotten about the older wizard. Pulling experimentally at his bonds, he gave another exasperated sigh as he eyed the older man. "Ship. Floats? Sure you have those 'round here, mate."

Albus Dumbledore pursed his lips, drawing another long-suffering sigh as he turned to the other man he had only just now revived. Perhaps he could get some answers out of _this_ one.

"You bear no Dark Mark. Why is that?" His wand was leveled at Will's chest, and Will took a moment to study the thin stick. It was similar to the one Jack had sported, though with some obvious differences – smaller, thinner, and made of a lighter wood that Jack's.

He could just hear the obscene "size" jokes starting now ...

The wand -- and the person holding it -- came closer, and Will jerked out of his thoughts to meet the older man's intense blue eyes, frowning as he recalled the question.

"Dark Mark?" The question was clear in his words, and Will rose one dark eyebrow as he watched the man shift impatiently. "I'm afraid I don't know --"

"And I suppose you just _found_ yourself here, is that it?" Albus knew he was being a bit unfair, a bit harsh -- harsher than he would normally have been. Hell, normally he would have enjoyed a puzzle such as this.

But that _damned man_ reminded him far too much of James, and the pain in his heart would not let him be anything but brusque with these intruders. Not when he wanted nothing more than to see James' smiling countenance once again.

Hell, even his scowling face would have been a welcome sight.

"Actually ..." Will let his words trail off into nothingness, letting his face speak for itself. And speak it did, if the incredulous look on the older man's face was anything to go by.

"We're not quite sure _how_ we got here, honestly. Or where _here_ is." Will tested the bonds that held him once again, the muscles of his arms flexing as he eyed the older man warily.

Albus, for his part, was more than a tad confused, and the sight of such a physical test of his spell only added to that confusion. The young man before him was young -- young enough to be a prime pick for Tom's forces. But his reactions were purely physical -- he held no more magic than a mere muggle, from the looks of things.

And he got the same feelings from the young woman he had yet to awaken. Which meant --

"A diversion."

Not much, I know, and I _did_ have more, before the unfortunate crash of the website I was storing my stories at. I had this backed up on my computer, though, and it seemed enough to send out ... for now. Keep leaving those reviews! They encourage the plot bunnies to rabidly attack me ... Chicadoodle


	4. Chapter 4

It was the picture that undid everything for Jack.

Not the sight of these once familiar halls, nor the people he had once known. Professor McGonnogal was waiting in the Headmaster's office, eyeing each of them in wary confusion. It hurt on some level, to see that susupicion aimed at himself - but he had given them no reason to trust him.

But the picture ... it was sitting innocently enough on the Headmaster's desk, surrounded by other decorations. It was a muggle picture, not moving as the others around it - which was perhaps the reason why Jack's eyes were brought to it immediately.

Both Will and Elizabeth both were staring around themselves, much as they had been in the halls. It was the pictures that really did it for them, he knew. Moving as if the souls of the dead lay trapped inside .. or perhaps only part of a person's soul, if that person still lived.

The ones in the halls were what did it for mot people when they were first introduced to the Wizarding World; those portraits that spoke and felt just as if they were real, living and breathing people. He'd never met one of a person who was not dead and gone, of course; wondered if it was even possible.

But THAT PICTURE.

It caught his attention, and though the eyes of both professors were on him, he found himself moving across the room to pick it up, cradling it in both his hands.

It could have almost been him, the figure in that picture, though he did not recognise the other two children. Almost, except for those startling green eyes. That, and the height; he had always been tall for his age, quickly topping his mother's 5'2". And then there had been Lily - sweet, gentle Lily. She had been short - shorter even than his mother, not even topping five feet.

The figure in this picture was closer to Lily's height than anything - the red-headed boy in the picture towering over him. Even the girl seemed large in comparison to the slight figure that could have been his double.

Or his son.

He survived. That was the one thought his mind focused itself upon, the one idea he was having so much trouble comprehending. He didn't realize he had said it out loud until Professor Dumbledore made a sharp sound from behind him, and the picture was pulled forcefully from his hands.

"Do you know that kid, Jack?" This from Will, who never seemed to know when to keep his mouth shut. Normally Jack didn't mind - it gave his enemy something else to focus their attention on. Now, however, he felt a sudden anger burning in his chest. He wasn't sure where it came from, wasn't sure WHY, but he didn't want them here; didn't want them knowing about Harry.

Harry. Laughing, smiling Harry. He had always been a happy baby, always inquisitive, always ready for his next adventure.

Just like him.

Dumbledore, for his part, said nothing to Will as he moved to stand directly before Jack, one aged, gnarled hand moving to grasp the edge of the picture frame. "Who are you?" He spoke to Jack, never taking his eyes off the younger man, blue eyes devoid of the twinkle he was known for.

"Jack Sparrow." The answer came too quickly, he knew - the lie easily seen through. Even poor Will looked a tad confused - and the wheels were already turning in Elizabeth's head. It was said not with the usual flair, nor the insinuation that the listener should have known his name already. No, this time it was said quietly, quickly, as though he wanted no questions raised as to the validity of his claim.

Which only made those questions come all the more readily.

"Really." It was obvious the aged professor did not believe him, but Jack couldn't bring himself to care. The older man's fingers didn't even stray onto the picture itself, didn't obscure his son's face, so Jack didn't even try to pull the frame out of his grasp, merely continued staring down at that smiling face.

He wished it were a less mundane photo - wished he could see the real emotions of his son during the taking of the photo. Had he really been that happy, really had so few cares? He hoped so ... but if Voldemort were still at large, he highly doubted it.

It hurt now, to think back to those fear-filled days. He had never been so afraid, as he had been in those last few weeks. Afraid for himself, for his wife, for their son. For the new life growing within her. A little brother, maybe a sister for little Harry ... the thought had filled him with hope for the future, at the same time scaring him even more. He had more than himself to look after, more even than his wife. Three lives had depended on him ... and he had been so sure he had let them - all three of them - down.

Maybe just two, then.

The thought shouldn't have made him as happy as it did - but he had long ago pushed his grief for Lily to the side. He hadn't faced it, knew it would come back to haunt him one of these days. But here was Harry ... sweet, innocent Harry who had laughed so gleefully at the sight of a sucker, or a little bit of candy snuck to him behind his mother's back. Lily would constantly go on and on about rotting his teeth, of course ... what few of them there were.

The longer he stared at the picture, though, the more little things jumped out at him. The way Harry's mouth remained closed, not showing those pearly white's. It wasn't even a full smile, was it? Half-arsed, it was, his arms hanging loosely around the shoulders of each of his friends. He slouched - no big deal, really. Most kids did. Something about that particular slouch, though ... almost like he was trying to disappear.

The clothes.

Jack wasn't sure how he had missed it the first time around, but it WAS the clothes; old, worn, far too large for such a small boy. Fingers running over the surface of the picture, Jack was barely even aware of the others in the room. Even as Dumbledore began speaking, he paid only half an ear to him.

"You knew James, didn't you?" Though it was phrased as a question, the older man didn't seem particularly put off when Jack didn't answer. Merely continued watching him, those intense blue eyes never leaving Jack's face.

"You knew Harry, then." Amazing, the conclusions the old man could jump to on his own. He was filling the blanks in his memory on his own, not bothering to really confirm anything, his aged fingers finally setting the picture back in it's original position.

Finally tearing his eyes from the picture, Jack turned his attention back to the older man, a frown pulling at his lips as the fingers of his right hand moved to pull at his own beard, tangling in the beads tied there. It was more a nervous habit than anything else - something to do with his hands.

"Is he here, then? Attending?" His eyes remained trained on the older man's nose - close enough to his eyes as to not seem impolite, but not close enough to let the other man see inside, as he had done so many times before.

All traces of the accent he had once sported were gone, however, and he knew without looking that the confusion from earlier had only increased in the faces of both Will and Elizabeth.

It had grown natural over the years - that accent. Teague thought it hilarious, that he had taken to the other man's style of speech so eagerly. _So eager to give that old life up, are ya m'boy?_ He could still hear those words, no matter how he tried to fight the memories of those first few days in the man's company.

"How did you know them?" Ah, a question for a question. So very much like the man, keeping his cards close to his chest, never giving away anything.

Except that he **was** giving away something; there was a wariness there that had nothing to do with his initial suspicion of the three of them, and had everything to do with the secrets that only two men were privy to; Albus Dumbledore and James Potter.

Jack almost smirked - almost. Somehow, he couldn't seem to display his usual flair, his usual disregard. "We were ... close, once. The three of us." Let him think what he would of that statement - that 'three' meant simply James, Lily and he. It was close enough to the truth.

Really, though, all of this Jack only paid half his attention to, the other half revolving around that one fact he couldn't seem to wrap his head around.

His son was alive.


End file.
